


And yet I am, and live

by NervousAsexual



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bonding, Episode: s02e05 The Night of the Returning Dead, discussion of slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28616913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousAsexual/pseuds/NervousAsexual
Summary: Before he goes out to find his place in the world, Jeremiah and Artie spend a quiet evening in an unusual place.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	And yet I am, and live

**Author's Note:**

> I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;  
> My friends forsake me like a memory lost:  
> I am the self-consumer of my woes—  
> They rise and vanish in oblivious host,  
> Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes  
> And yet I am, and live...  
> \-- _I Am_ , John Clare

In all the time he'd spent crossing the country in the Wanderer it had never occurred to Artie to hang around _on_ the Wanderer.

"Not as enjoyable as an evening in the mountains," Jeremiah said, setting aside the whiskey bottle and turning his face to the evening sky. "But I suppose it will do."

With one last burst of effort Artie dragged himself over the edge of the car's roof and rolled to his back. "After all that I'd certainly hope so."

"Don't you hear it?" Jeremiah tipped his head to one side, eyes drifting closed, and raised a single finger as a lonely coyote called in the distance. "My sister. She's had a trying day."

"Tell her I'm sorry to hear that." The sky had gone a warm orange, streaked with purple. "At least it's bookended by a lovely sunset."

"Oh, she can't see colors, Artie. Few animals can."

"No?" The air was cooling fast but the metal roof was still warm from the day. Artie settled himself against the steel and tucked an arm behind his head. "She told you that, did she?"

"Not in so many words." Jeremiah poured another tumbler of whiskey. "Offer you a drink?"

"I'll wait 'til we're on solid ground, thanks. I've broken plenty of ribs in my day and I'll tell you something--it's not an enjoyable experience."

"I wouldn't let you fall."

"I know you wouldn't."

The coyote howled again, and whatever it was she was saying made Jeremiah smile. Artie watched quietly--only partly because climbing up there had winded him.

"You really don't hear it, do you?"

"Oh, I'm not nearly as sensitive to these things as you are."

"It's not a matter of sensitivity. All you have to do is listen."

So he listened, to the sound of the wind and the horses shifting in the car below and Jeremiah humming softly to himself. He still didn't hear whatever it was the stablehand heard, but it was pleasant enough music on a pleasant enough evening. It was almost enough to make him forget all the trouble he'd had climbing up here. It was almost, dare he say it, a nice evening. He pulled himself up and back so that he and Jeremiah sat shoulder to shoulder, one looking to the sunset and the other to the first evening star. "I guess they don't have much to say to me."

"You'll hear it eventually."

"Naturally. But the trick with the horses, that I doubt I'll grasp."

"Don't even ask."

Artie scoffed. "I would never."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Well, I..."

"I can't give away all my trade secrets."

"Of course. And you know something, I'm the very picture of professional discretion."

Jeremiah smiled. He leaned back and patted Artie's knee. "I'm sure you are."

"But you're not going to tell me."

"I am not."

"Even if I say we're in the same trade?"

Jeremiah's warm dark eyes were smiling as well. "I know the secret service can't be all high drama all the time, but it's not exactly circus work."

"No, no, not the service. My first love always was the stage."

Their eyes met. Not even the distant coyote spoke.

"I suppose that would make sense," Jeremiah said at last. "With your knack for voices and costumes and that."

Artie grinned. "I have a knack, do I?"

"Well, it wasn't Jim dressing Colonel Beaumont, now, was it?"

He had to give him that one. The colonel's hat was his favorite touch--he'd spent that first night in Denver pressing the gold leaf letters into the sweatband while Jim and Jeremiah were off enjoying the perks of the city. At some ungodly hour they'd turned up, both of them smelling of perfume and middling-fair alcohol, and he'd scolded them for being out and about while Jim scolded him for still being up. Jeremiah, tipsy though he was, took the hat from him and looked it over at every angle. It all felt so natural, as if Jeremiah had always been part of the partnership. "The costumes and characters came later. You know how it is in show business. You have to work your way up." A second evening star joined the first, and a third. "I started in the orchestra. Second violin, viola, fill-in where needed." He snapped his fingers. "I've just had an idea. Why don't we break out the instruments together? Just you and me. It's been a while since I've done a duet."

"On the roof of your train car?"

"Well, this whole endeavor with the roof was your idea, if you remember." He understood. It had been a long day and Jeremiah was content to sit and listen. Sometimes a person just needed some time alone. "You want me to go?"

"After all the work I put in to get you up here?" Jeremiah laughed. "You had better not."

They watched the sky fade, the orange turning to pink to purple to midnight blue. A thousand other stars lit up in the darkness, and he lost the evening star somewhere in the lot.

The breeze turned cool, settling an uncomfortable chill over him, everywhere except the side that was turned to Jeremiah. "May I say something?"

The brown eyes met his and rolled cheerfully. "Hell and horses couldn't stop you from saying something."

Also true. "Something a little more serious. It was a fine thing you did, coming to us. It would have been so simple for you to walk away when you saw Jackson, especially with his reputation being what it was and Carson being who he was."

Jeremiah shrugged. "I didn't do it for Carson. He may have been the big shot, but he's not the only one who died in that fire."

"Of course. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what happened to them."

"Thanks."

The word came out short and clipped, and Artie knew he'd pushed the topic as far as decency allowed.

"Man who thinks he can own another man deserves to die," Jeremiah said. "But nobody deserves to die the way they did. Not even a Confederate officer."

"You're a better man than I."

But Jeremiah just shook his head.

"I'm sorry." What else could he say?

"There were six."

"What?"

"Six servants. Judy, David, Eliza. Adele. Danny. Me." Jeremiah rested his hands in his lap, the whiskey tumbler clenched tightly in his fingers. "Judy, Danny, and I grew up together. All of us grew up to be his servants. That was his name for it, you know. He didn't own us. It was just a coincidence that our families were..."

Artie said nothing--there was nothing he could say--but put a hand on Jeremiah's shoulder and squeezed gently. Jeremiah's hand came up to cover his.

"He could never call us what we were. He was a good, proper Southern gentleman. He never bought anyone. He 'liberated' them."

So many of them did. Artie had been blissfully ignorant before the war. So many people he'd known and liked then and it took civil war before he realized how they thought about slavery. So many men he'd known had insisted that it was for the best, that slavery was some kind of benevolent paternalism, and to realize that these people he'd otherwise respected held such a radically different view than he did was like a punch to the gut.

"It's funny, isn't it? I didn't need that Barbados accent and voodoo to fool them. Why would Carl Jackson remember a... a..." He shook his head. "One slave looks like another, I guess."

The apology rose in his throat but Artie kept quiet. He was excruciatingly aware that any apology he could offer would be more about himself than Jeremiah. Sorry wouldn't bring back the people who'd been killed. Sorry wouldn't erase the experiences of the people who'd been enslaved.

"Maybe Colonel Carson should have taken a page from his book. If he weren't so convinced he was saving us maybe he would have left us when he ran, and maybe the rest of them would still be alive today." He brushed the heel of his hand against his face and wiped at his eyes. "Sorry. It was a lovely sunset 'til I got going."

"Don't be. If you want to tell me your story I want to hear it."

A half-smile cracked Jeremiah's face, but the expression didn't extend to his eyes. "Maybe later. After a few more glasses of these." He held up the empty tumbler and gave it a wiggle.

"I think I can oblige." Artie pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle and poured them both another round. "How about a toast?"

"To our mutual friend Colonel Carson." Jeremiah raised the glass in the growing dark. "We couldn't have come this far without him."

Artie shook his head. "Not to him. To the person we couldn't have done this without."

"To Jim?" The smile that reached his eyes now was sad, but it was a smile.

"Well, he definitely helped, but no." Artie held out his own glass. "To you. Not just to where you came from, but to wherever you're going and whatever you'll do."

"To life, then. And finding your place in it."

"Now that," Artie said, clinking their glasses together. "I'll drink to that."

They both did.

The whiskey helped a little but eventually the night was just too cold and Jeremiah slipped lightly to the ground, turning back to help Artie down.

"I told you I wouldn't let you fall," he said.

"And I told you I knew you wouldn't." His spirits felt a little brighter at the smile Jeremiah gave him. "Jeremiah?"

"Yeah?"

"I know you have to look, but if you ever decide the secret service is your place... the offer still stands. Always."

Somewhere the coyote called and Jeremiah smiled as he listened. He took Artie's hands in his and pressed them, and maybe it was the whiskey or maybe it was the cold but Artie was glad for it. He tried to put it into words--funny that words were his tools and weapons and here they were failing him--but before he could speak one of the windows in the stateroom car opened and Jim leaned out.

"You two hoodlums," he said. "Out here gallivanting 'til all hours of the morning."

It was almost a relief to hear that. "And what about you? You need your beauty sleep, Jim. How are you going to seduce the next henchwoman with bags under your eyes?"

"I've got a mask he can use." With a magician-worthy flourish he pulled the torn, tattered face of Colonel Carson's ghost from his shirt pocket.

"Let me see." Artie held it out at arm's length, frowning and turning it over in his hands. "I don't know, Jim. Could be an improvement."

"Careful, Artie. Protest too much and I might start to think you're jealous."

"Who, me?" Artie slipped an arm around Jeremiah's narrow shoulders and gave him a light squeeze. "No, I'm sizing up your replacement."

"Oh, get in here before you catch your death." Jim disappeared back inside and the window dropped back into place.

"Go to bed, old man!" Artie called after him. He was starting to feel warm again, warm and relaxed and _happy_ for once. When he felt Jeremiah slide an arm around his shoulders he thought for sure it was the whiskey making him hallucinate. But Jeremiah was right there, breath smelling of whiskey and warm against the cold night air.

"Think it's past time for you to be in bed too, old man," he said.

Artie sucked in a breath. "Sharper than the serpent's tooth... and I'll have you know that I am twenty-nine, with a couple of years of experience."

"Did I say 'old man?' I meant to say..." He laughed. "No, no, I can't do it. I can't say it with a straight face."

Artie smiled and shook his head. "You're a show-business man yourself. You ought to know straight faces are overrated."

Jeremiah squeezed his shoulders. "Hey, I just had an idea. Let's break out the musical instruments."

"Marvelous idea," Artie told him, and together they climbed the steps into the Wanderer. "Couldn't have done better myself."


End file.
